A Day of Fate

  Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Charles Franks and theOnline Distributed Proofreading Team.

  "SHE FELT MY PRESENCE AND LOOKED UP QUICKLY."]

  The Works of E. P. Roe

  _VOLUME FOURTEEN_

  A DAY OF FATE

  _ILLUSTRATED_

  1880

  PREFACE

  "Some shallow story of deep love."

  --Shakespeare

  CONTENTS

  _BOOK FIRST_

  CHAPTER I AIMLESS STEPS

  CHAPTER II A JUNE DAY DREAM

  CHAPTER III A SHINING TIDE

  CHAPTER IV REALITY

  CHAPTER V MUTUAL DISCOVERIES

  CHAPTER VI A QUAKER TEA

  CHAPTER VII A FRIEND

  CHAPTER VIII THE MYSTERY OF MYSTERIES

  CHAPTER IX "OLD PLOD"

  CHAPTER X A BIT OF EDEN

  CHAPTER XI "MOVED"

  CHAPTER XII ONE OF NATURE'S TRAGEDIES

  CHAPTER XIII THE LIGHTNING AND A SUBTLER FLAME

  CHAPTER XIV KINDLING A SPARK OF LIFE

  CHAPTER XV MY FATE

  _BOOK SECOND_

  CHAPTER I THE DAY AFTER

  CHAPTER II "IT WAS INEVITABLE"

  CHAPTER III RETURNING CONSCIOUSNESS

  CHAPTER IV IN THE DARK

  CHAPTER V A FLASH OF MEMORY

  CHAPTER VI WEAKNESS

  CHAPTER VII OLD PLOD IDEALIZED

  CHAPTER VIII AN IMPULSE

  CHAPTER IX A WRETCHED FAILURE

  CHAPTER X IN THE DEPTHS

  CHAPTER XI POOR ACTING

  CHAPTER XII THE HOPE OP A HIDDEN TREASURE

  CHAPTER XIII THE OLD MEETING-HOUSE AGAIN

  CHAPTER XIV LOVE TEACHING ETHICS

  CHAPTER XV DON'T THINK OF ME

  CHAPTER XVI "RICHARD"

  CHAPTER XVII MY WORST BLUNDER

  CHAPTER XVIII MRS. YOCOMB'S LETTERS

  CHAPTER XIX ADAH

  CHAPTER XX THANKSGIVING DAY

  CHAPTER XXI RIPPLES ON DEEP WATER

  _BOOK FIRST_

  CHAPTER I

  AIMLESS STEPS

  "Another month's work will knock Morton into 'pi,'" was a remark thatcaught my ear as I fumed from the composing-room back to my privateoffice. I had just irately blamed a printer for a blunder of my own,and the words I overheard reminded me of the unpleasant truth that Ihad recently made a great many senseless blunders, over which I chafedin merciless self-condemnation. For weeks and months my mind had beentense under the strain of increasing work and responsibility. It was mynature to become absorbed in my tasks, and, as night editor of aprominent city journal, I found a limitless field for labor. It wastrue I could have jogged along under the heavy burden withcomparatively little wear and loss, but, impelled by both temperamentand ambition, I was trying to maintain a racer's speed. From casualemployment as a reporter I had worked my way up to my present position,and the tireless activity and alertness required to win and hold such aplace was seemingly degenerating into a nervous restlessness whichpermitted no repose of mind or rest of body. I worked when other menslept, but, instead of availing myself of the right to sleep when theworld was awake, I yielded to an increasing tendency to wakefulness,and read that I might be informed on the endless variety of subjectsoccupying public attention. The globe was becoming a vasthunting-ground, around which my thoughts ranged almost unceasingly thatI might capture something new, striking, or original for the benefit ofour paper. Each day the quest had grown more eager, and as the hour forgoing to press approached I would even become feverish in my intensedesire to send the paper out with a breezy, newsy aspect, and would beelated if, at the last moment, material was flashed in that wouldwarrant startling head-lines, and correspondingly depressed if theweary old world had a few hours of quiet and peace. To make the paper"go," every faculty I possessed was in the harness.

  The aside I had just overheard suggested, at least, one very probableresult. In printer's jargon, I would soon be in "pi."

  The remark, combined with my stupid blunder, for which I had blamed aninnocent man, caused me to pull up and ask myself whither I washurrying so breathlessly. Saying to my assistant that I did not wish tobe disturbed for a half hour, unless it was essential, I went to mylittle inner room. I wished to take a mental inventory of myself, andsee how much was left. Hitherto I had been on the keen run--a conditionnot favorable to introspection.

  Neither my temperament nor the school in which I had been trainedinclined me to slow, deliberate processes of reasoning. I looked my owncase over as I might that of some brother-editors whose journals weredraining them of life, and whose obituaries I shall probably write if Isurvive them. Reason and Conscience, now that I gave them a chance,began to take me to task severely.

  "You are a blundering fool," said Reason, "and the man in thecomposing-room is right. You are chafing over petty blunders whileignoring the fact that your whole present life is a blunder, and theadequate reason why your faculties are becoming untrustworthy. Each dayyou grow more nervously anxious to have everything correct, giving yourmind to endless details, and your powers are beginning to snap like theoverstrained strings of a violin. At this rate you will soon spendyourself and all there is of you."

  Then Conscience, like an irate judge on the bench, arraigned me. "Youare a heathen, and your paper is your car of Juggernaut. You areceasing to be a man and becoming merely an editor--no, not even aneditor--a newsmonger, one of the world's gossips. You are an Athenianonly as you wish to hear and tell some new thing. Long ears arebecoming the appropriate symbols of your being. You are too hurried,too eager for temporary success, too taken up with details, to formcalm, philosophical opinions of the great events of your time, and thusbe able to shape men's opinions. You commenced as a reporter, and are areporter still. You pride yourself that you are not narrow, unconsciousof the truth that you are spreading yourself thinly over the meresurface of affairs. You have little comprehension of the deeper forcesand motives of humanity."

  It is true that I might have pleaded in extenuation of these rathersevere judgments that I was somewhat alone in the world, living inbachelor apartments, without the redeeming influences of home andfamily life. There were none whose love gave them the right or themotive to lay a restraining hand upon me, and my associates in laborwere more inclined to applaud my zeal than to curb it. Thus it had beenleft to the casual remark of a nameless printer and an instance of myown failing powers to break the spell that ambition and habit wereweaving.

  Before the half hour elapsed I felt weak and ill. The moment I relaxedthe tension and will-power which I had maintained so long, strongreaction set in. Apparently I had about reached the limits ofendurance. I felt as if I were growing old and feeble by minutes as onemight by years. Taking my hat and coat I passed out, remarking to myassistant that he must do the best he could--that I was ill and wouldnot return. If the Journal had never appeared again I could not thenhave written a line to save it, or read another proof.

  Saturday morning found me feverish, unrefreshed, and more painfullyconscious than ever that I was becoming little better than the presseson which the paper was printed. Depression inevitably follows wearinessand exhaustion, and one could scarcely take a more gloomy view ofhimself than I did.

  "I will escape from this city as if it were Sodom," I muttered, "and aJune day in the country will reveal whether I have a soul for anythingbeyond the wrangle of politics and the world's gossip."

  In my despondency I was inclined to be reckless, and after merelywriting a brief note to my editorial chief, saying that I had brokendown and was going to the country, I started almost at random. After afew hours' riding I wearied of the cars, and left them at a smallvillage whose name I did not care to inquire. The mountains and sceneryplease
d me, although the day was overcast like my mind and fortunes.Having found a quiet inn and gone through the form of a dinner, I satdown on the porch in dreary apathy.

  The afternoon aspect of the village street seemed as dull and devoid ofinterest as my own life at that hour, and in fancy I saw myself, abroken-down man, lounging away days that would be like eternities,going through my little round like a bit of driftwood, slowly circlingin an eddy of the world's great current. With lack-lustre eyes I"looked up to the hills," but no "help" came from them. The air wasclose, the sky leaden; even the birds would not sing. Why had I come tothe country? It had no voices for me, and I resolved to return to thecity. But while I waited my eyes grew heavy with the blessed power tosleep--a boon, for which I then felt that I would travel to the UltimaThule. Leaving orders that I should not be disturbed, I went to myroom, and Nature took the tired man, as if he were a weary child, intoher arms.

  At last I imagined that I was at the Academy of Music, and that theorchestra were tuning their instruments for the overture. A louderstrain than usual caused me to start up, and I saw through the openwindow a robin on a maple bough, with its tuneful throat swelled to theutmost. This was the leader of my orchestra, and the whole country wasalive with musicians, each one giving out his own notes without anyregard for the others, but apparently the score had been written forthem all, since the innumerable strains made one divine harmony. Fromthe full-orbed song from the maple by my window, down to the faintestchirp and twitter, there was no discord; while from the fields beyondthe village the whistle of the meadow-larks was so mellowed andsoftened by distance as to incline one to wonder whether their noteswere real or mere ideals of sound.

  For a long time I was serenely content to listen to the myriad-voicedchords without thinking of the past or future. At last I found myselfidly querying whether Nature did not so blend all out-of-door sounds asto make them agreeable, when suddenly a catbird broke the spell ofharmony by its flat, discordant note. Instead of my wonted irritationat anything that jarred upon my nerves, I laughed as I sprang up,saying,

  "That cry reminds me that I am in the body and in the same old world.That bird is near akin to the croaking printer."

  But my cynicism was now more assumed than real, and I began to wonderat myself. The change of air and scene had seemingly broken a maligninfluence, and sleep--that for weeks had almost forsaken me--hadyielded its deep refreshment for fifteen hours. Besides, I had notsinned against my life so many years as to have destroyed theelasticity of early manhood. When I had lain down to rest I had feltmyself to be a weary, broken, aged man. Had I, in my dreams, discoveredthe Fountain of Youth, and unconsciously bathed in it? In my reboundtoward health of mind and body I seemed to have realized what the oldSpaniard vainly hoped for.

  I dressed in haste, eager to be out in the early June sunshine. Therehad been a shower in the night, and the air had a fine exhilaratingquality, in contrast with the close sultriness of the previousafternoon.

  Instead of nibbling at breakfast while I devoured the morning dailies,I ate a substantial meal, and only thought of papers to bless theirabsence, and then walked down the village street with the quick gladtread of one whose hope and zest in life have been renewed. FragrantJune roses were opening on every side, and it appeared to me that allthe sin of man could not make the world offensive to heaven thatmorning.

  I wished that some of the villagers whom I met were more in accord withNature's mood; but in view of my own shortcomings, and still morebecause of my fine physical condition, I was disposed toward a largecharity. And yet I could not help wondering how some that I saw couldwalk among their roses and still look so glum and matter-of-fact. Ifelt as if I could kiss every velvet petal.

  "You were unjust," I charged back on Conscience; "this morning provesthat I am not an ingrained newsmonger. There is still man enough leftwithin me to revive at Nature's touch;" and I exultantly quickened mysteps, until I had left the village miles away.

  Before the morning was half gone I learned how much of my old vigor hadebbed, for I was growing weary early in the day. Therefore I pausedbefore a small gray building, old and weather-stained, that seemedneither a barn, nor a dwelling, nor a school-house. A man was in theact of unlocking the door, and his garb suggested that it might be aFriends' meeting-house. Yielding to an idle curiosity I mounted a stonewall at a point where I was shaded and partially screened by a tree,and watched and waited, beguiling the time with a branch of sweetbriarthat hung over my resting-place.

  Soon strong open wagons and rockaways began to appear drawn by sleek,plump horses that often, seemingly, were gayer than their drivers.Still there was nothing sour in the aspect or austere in the garb ofthe people. Their quiet appearance took my fancy amazingly, and thepeach-like bloom on the cheeks of even well-advanced matrons suggesteda serene and quiet life.

  "These are the people of all others with whom I would like to worshipto-day," I thought; "and I hope that that rotund old lady, whose facebeams under the shadow of her deep bonnet like a harvest moon through afleecy cloud, will feel moved to speak." I plucked a few buds from thesweet-briar bush, fastened them in my button-hole, and promptlyfollowed the old lady into the meeting-house. Having found a vacant pewI sat down, and looked around with serene content. But I soon observedthat something was amiss, for the men folk looked at each other andthen at me. At last an elderly and substantial Friend, with a face soflushed and round as to suggest a Baldwin apple, arose and creaked withpainful distinctness to where I was innocently infringing on one oftheir customs.

  "If thee will follow me, friend," he said, "I'll give thee a seat withthe men folks. Thee's welcome, and thee'll feel more at home to followour ways."

  His cordial grasp of my hand would have disarmed suspicion itself, andI followed him meekly. In my embarrassment and desire to show that Ihad no wish to appear forward, I persisted in taking a side seat nextto the wall, and quite near the door; for my guide, in order to showhis goodwill and to atone for what might seem rudeness, was bent onmarshalling me almost up to the high seats that faced the congregation,where sat my rubicund old Friend lady, whose aspect betokened that shehad just the Gospel message I needed.

  I at once noted that these staid and decorous people looked straightbefore them in an attitude of quiet expectancy. A few little childrenturned on me their round, curious eyes, but no one else stared at theblundering stranger, whose modish coat, with a sprig of wild roses inits buttonhole, made him rather a conspicuous contrast to the other menfolk, and I thought--

  "Here certainly is an example of good-breeding which could scarcely befound among other Christians. If one of these Friends should appear inthe most fashionable church on the Avenue, he would be well stared at,but here even the children are receiving admonitory nudges not to lookat me."

  I soon felt that it was not the thing to be the only one who wasirreverently looking around, and my good-fortune soon supplied amplemotive for looking steadily in one direction. The reader may justlythink that I should have composed my mind to meditation on my manysins, but I might as well have tried to gather in my hands the reins ofall the wild horses of Arabia as to curb and manage my errant thoughts.My only chance was for some one or something to catch and hold them forme. If that old Friend lady would preach I was sure she would do megood. As it was, her face was an antidote to the influences of theworld in which I dwelt, but I soon began to dream that I had found astill better remedy, for, at a fortunate angle from my position, theresat a young Quakeress whose side face arrested my attention and heldit. By leaning a little against the wall as well as the back of mybench, I also, well content, could look straight before me like theothers.

  The fair profile was but slightly hidden by a hat that had aperceptible leaning toward the world in its character, but the brow wasonly made to seem a little lower, and her eyes deepened in their blueby its shadow. My sweet-briar blossoms were not more delicate in theirpink shadings than was the bloom on her rounded cheek, and the white,firm chin denoted an absence of weakness
and frivolity. The upper lip,from where I sat, seemed one half of Cupid's bow. I could but barelycatch a glimpse of a ripple of hair that, perhaps, had not beensmoothed with sufficient pains, and thus seemed in league with theslightly worldly bonnet. In brief, to my kindled fancy, her youth andloveliness appeared the exquisite human embodiment of the June morning,with its alternations of sunshine and shadow, its roses and theirfragrance, of its abounding yet untarnished and beautiful life.

  No one in the meeting seemed moved save myself, but I felt as if Icould become a poet, a painter, and even a lover, under the inspirationof that perfect profile.